


The Sprained Spirit: 4 Simple Steps to Recovery

by errandofmercy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Redemption
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-05
Updated: 2013-07-05
Packaged: 2017-12-17 19:02:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/870945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/errandofmercy/pseuds/errandofmercy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An exploration of Severus' return to Hogwarts as an adult and his first year as Potions Master.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rest

Step 1: Rest

Severus came to him in pieces. Like the horcruxes he would discover in the years to come, the young man's life in service to Voldemort had cost him the integrity of his soul. Grief had blasted through the fractures and fissures that already existed, rending his spirit apart. Only a disparate jumble of fragments remained by the time he returned to the Headmaster's office, slumped in the high-backed guest seat like a discarded rag doll.

  
Albus had sifted through the rubble, jagged edges nicking his fingers until he had found the one he wanted; the infant Harry, the last remaining trace of the woman Lily Potter. He had wielded this cutting truth like a scalpel, extracting a promise from Severus. Now came the extraordinary task of rehabilitating the dangerous young wizard, of piecing together his sundered soul.

  
He began by setting the wounds in a firm cast of expectations and demands. There was scarcely a month left before the start of term, so he gave Severus two weeks to be consumed by grief. After that it was clear that he would be treated as any other junior staff member; that is to say, worked to his very bones. But this first stage of healing was a tricky thing; expose the wounds too soon and they would never heal properly, let them fester too long and the infection would only spread. The first night, or whatever was left of it once their tearful parley had ceased, Severus had remained in that same stiff chair as if he were chained to it. _I shouldn't be alone,_ he had croaked, and Albus had understood. Better here among the portraits' accusing glares than sequestered in the dungeons, where poisons, knives, and bad memories neatly lined the dusty shelves, eager to be put to use. Left to himself, it could well have been his last night on earth - and the last thing Hogwarts needed was another vengeful ghost. Albus had woken to the sight of a gorgeous sunrise painted across the young man's blotchy, stricken face. The painted heavens shone, wholly ignorant of the darkness that swelled inside him.

  
He had been taken down to the dungeons through a secret passage used only by the elves (and, no doubt, a few of the evening ladies of Hogsmeade in days long past) and shown to his chambers before any visitors were allowed in to see the Headmaster. Albus prided himself on his discretion. Though the young wizard would never have known it, Albus kept a close watch over him, and the house-elves were never far away. His two weeks of solitude were volatile as a fever, and Albus watched with quiet sympathy as he cursed and cut and burned away his pain. He would rage through the day at the not-so-deaf stone walls, his Philippics reaching only the Headmaster's ears and the disinterested elves, who still viewed him with unspoken disdain. At night his anger would ebb into misery, and he would weep like a wound, spilling tears and bile until he lapsed into a fitful sleep.

  
At last, sleep began to come to the young man in more regular intervals, and some nourishment made its way into his belly without being cast abruptly back up again. Albus noted this with satisfaction; it was a sign that the healing would soon begin. A sign he remembered from his own days of grief and anguish. He had been so young then, full of hubris and ambition. Like Severus, the scythe of death had cut him down with its indifferent, irreversible swing.

  
He had given himself much more time then. He had spent years wandering the dark forests of his soul, roaming the wasteland where his love once grew wild and lush. He had searched for a cure for his broken heart, a nugget of wisdom to explain the meaning of death. But in the end, he knew now, the process was always the same. Stepping out of the shadows, forging unbearable pain into a new, fragile kind of hope - it was just as difficult after a decade as after a fortnight.

  
Besides, he reasoned, the start of term would soon be upon them. There was no one else to teach Potions. Albus was a kind-hearted wizard, but he was nothing if not practical.

  
On the last day of his self-imposed exile, Albus had dismissed the house-elves and ventured down into the dungeons himself. He had pushed open the leaden door to the Slytherin Head of House's private chambers and glided through the mess of soiled handkerchiefs, dirty clothes and broken things. The unwashed stench of depression clung to every surface like the decayed contents of a raided tomb.

  
Severus had been sitting in the same spot where Albus had espied him upon leaving his office; he was hunched over the edge of the bed, his face half-obscured by shadow. However sure Albus was that he was still flesh and bone, Severus looked like a corn husk doll, brittle and lifeless. A single match and he'd have burned like parchment; one blow and he'd have crumbled into dust.

  
 _I'm not ready,_ he had mumbled from behind his filthy hair. _It's too soon..._ Albus had reached out a hand and the young man had pulled himself up, swaying like a drunk, like a kid on its first hooves. There had been such fear in his eyes that Albus had had to grit his teeth to keep his chin from trembling.  
 _The children need you, Severus,_ he had said, placing the young wizard's wand back into his hand for the first time since that fateful night. _And,_ he had added, after a long and difficult pause, _I need you, too._

  
With those words the first ray of sun had pierced through the room's tiny, barred window, and in the fertile ashes of Severus' grief, something began to grow. Albus' eyes sparkled as he strode away to his other duties, dewy and hopeful as the morning outside.


	2. Ice

The man who emerged from the dungeons that day was not the same as the one who had gone in. No longer would those chambers carry the sweet stench of a sickroom, no more would the floor be littered with rubbish and the debris of despair. Severus had crafted for himself a mask of stone, a plaster cast to protect and conceal the wounds that still burned beneath. Or perhaps, Albus had mused as he waved the young man over to the breakfast table, it was a chrysalis of sorts.

The garb the newly-christened Potions Master had chosen was as inscrutable as the man himself had become. The dark severity of his robes could be interpreted either as sinister or Puritanical. Not an inch of skin could be seen but the sallow face, now strangely impassive after Albus had seen it so contorted in anguish, and the quick, slender hands that made him such an excellent potion-maker. An expanse of black wool with a glimmer of white beneath, whether a tribute to fastidiousness or a method of concealing imperfections no one knew for sure, though the mystery probably suited Severus just fine.

As Severus approached the staff table for the first time, black eyes darting from face to skeptical face, Albus had risen from his seat and draped an arm around the man's narrow shoulders. The other professors had watched him with barely veiled contempt as the Headmaster made the official introduction - even gentle Hagrid's eyes had narrowed as if to protect from flying ash. Severus had given a slight tremor at the addendum of 'Professor' to his name, as if the act of Albus speaking the title aloud had finally made it real. The burden of his other clandestine duties fell silently around his neck like a sandbag.

Albus had never been one to disclose information unnecessarily; his natural bearing and now his position demanded that he keep a tight lid on many things. Still, he could not welcome a snake into his garden without furnishing an explanation to its other inhabitants. And so Severus had stood there, rigid and unreadable, as the Headmaster gave a highly abridged version of the tale of his departure from the Death Eaters. Severus did not so much as twitch at the mention of Voldemort's name, or the subtle hints towards the depths of his own despair. Only Albus, with his hand clasping the young wizard's shoulder, had felt how shallow his breathing had become. He stood still as a statue, but beneath that chiseled outer shell he was desperately, shamefully fragile.

A statue carved of ice.

Severus had buried himself in his work as if his soul were hibernating for the winter - just as Albus had hoped. He hid beneath his busyness, throwing up such a smokescreen of endless cleaning, organizing and preparation for the start of term that even the other teachers were impressed by his industry. Only Albus and a few more observant souls had seen past the facade to the fresh grief that still simmered below. However harried he may have appeared in the short last weeks of summer, Albus knew he was grateful to have something to occupy his mind besides the sinister thoughts that grew like stubborn mildew within. Working in the castle was physical therapy for the soul, not to mention that it furnished him with a safe place to sleep and the magical umbrella of Albus' protection. It gave his wounds the fresh air and time they would need to heal.

Finally the eve was upon them - children poured into the great Hall in waves of chatter and excitement, veteran students bursting with greetings and summer stories while the anxious first-years trickled in behind Minerva's encouraging prodding. After the feast, Severus had lingered, a black smudge beneath the great enchanted ceiling of the hall. No one had noticed that he remained as the buoyant candles flickered and faded, except for Albus, who saw what others did not. You've done well, he had said to the starry canopy overhead, and Severus had ground out his now customarily caustic reply. Beneath the membrane of self-loathing that surrounded him, however, the Headmaster could tell that the praise was making its way in. The new Potions Master was as worried about the quality of his work as he was fiercely defensive of it.

Albus had turned away, contemplating the celestial tableau above them, which was his way of acquiring Severus' undivided attention. The young wizard had finally learned one important thing about Dumbledore - the less attentive he seemed, the closer his scrutiny was. _Your prefects will be looking for you presently,_  the Headmaster said casually, as if a command were the last thing his statement could be.

 _They are Slytherins,_  Severus replied _, they would rather get themselves to bed than involve a teacher._  He had risen nonetheless, reluctant but always obedient.

 _How are you?_  Albus ventured as Severus passed by, and the Potions Master had turned too sharply, his wan face smooth and alien, his eyes like pewter marbles in their sockets.

 _It doesn't matter,_  he answered, and Albus had realized it was a comfort.


	3. Compression

Like all wounds, the passage of time did Severus' a world of good. As winter settled over the castle like a thick blanket, the routine rhythm of the days lulled his aching heart into a numb kind of normality. He became what Albus thought of as 'functional' - by no means warm or pleasant, but he did his job and he did it well. Warmth and pleasantness had never been part of his repertoire anyway, to be perfectly honest. He was not paralyzed by grief as he had once been, and though reports of his calumny towards students had already begun to trickle back to the staff table, Albus was pleased nonetheless. But as the season wore on, long and cold as a gnarled icicle, the Headmaster could see Severus' old wounds begin to crack and itch. He watched with growing interest - not yet concern - as the temptation to peel back the scabs, to expose the still-raw flesh beneath, began to grow.

At last, it happened. The boy had only been in his third year; Albus was surprised at his audacity. He had botched a potion which had, when Professor Snape came round to check his work, exploded in both their faces. Severus' robes had caught fire and, in his haste to eschew the soaked and fuming garment, he had unwittingly exposed his Mark to the entire class. Fueled by the angry burns on his face, the students' panic and the shame that burned like lava within him, Severus had, after a fashion, briefly lost his mind.

Six students injured by flying glass, three more with injuries from the blast of the thrown cauldron - how does one even go about _throwing_  a cauldron, Albus wondered - and a total of twenty-eight who, aside from being scarred for life by witnessing the episode, had conclusive evidence that their teacher was, in fact, a Death Eater. Murderer, torturer, poisoner, monster. Memory charms were out of the question. But so was sacking Severus. Albus had stroked his beard thoughtfully for a long time. Perhaps a few very carefully-worded letters home...

They were not enough. The rumors spread like wildfire, the staff was mutinous, and then...

The Ministry had called for a hearing.

Severus' soft, even footsteps had carried up the spiral staircase to the Headmaster's office. Dumbledore had put down his cup of ginger tea and lay today's issue of the Prophet on his desk. Though his dress robes were meticulously pressed, the young wizard looked as if he hadn't slept a wink, and Albus, with his many eyes and ears about the castle, knew it to be true. It felt as if they had returned to square one - Severus consumed with rage and grief, unable to perform his duties or even look Albus in the eye. The scars that had been doing so well had been ripped cruelly apart, leaving behind a bloody, stinging mess. The only difference was that this time, Albus had to prove the young man's worth to a tribunal of powerful strangers, not simply to his own flock. And he had to convince Severus as well. Albus had the feeling that the Potions Master was harsher with himself than even the most castigating member of the Wizengamot.

By the time they made it into the Ministry, Severus' shields were already firmly in place. Stone-faced as he was, Albus had known that self-loathing swelled within him with each passing moment, expanding like a boil ready to burst.

The jurors had discussed him as if he were not present, like an insect pinned to a display board, but it was just as well; he would have bungled and stammered unconvincingly had they given him occasion to speak. Instead, Albus had spoken on his behalf while he sat in silent agony, unmoving and impassive. Albus' defense had been as brilliant as it was confident - weaving pure magic with his words, he managed to paint the young man in a flattering light that astounded them both. He worked well under pressure, Albus did. Incredibly, they let him off - the Draconian spear-lined cage had retracted, the scornful crowd had dispersed, and the two of them had made their way through the obsidian-marbled halls and out into the open street.

Outside they had walked away from the noisy throng of onlookers to the Apparition point, fast enough to discourage pursuit. Severus' steps had been mechanical, his face blank as a doll's when Albus tried to catch a discreet glimpse of it. Halfway to their destination, in a dense thicket of snow-covered trees, he had begun to slow. Like a wind-up soldier that has lost its charge, his feet had faltered and he had crumpled as if in slow-motion to the frozen ground. Albus did not realize he had fallen behind until he heard the first sob.

The young wizard had doubled over as if some sudden spasm had seized him - as indeed it had - he held his head so tightly it looked as if he might crush his own skull. Albus had approached him slowly, kneeling in the snow as one would approach an injured animal known to bite.

But Severus only stared at the patch of salt-and-pepper earth between his knobby legs; dry, cracked sounds had issued from his lips like a crow's mournful call. He had compacted himself, as if he thought that by sheer force of will he could shrink down to nothing, disappear from this cruel and punitive world. When he had begun to speak, the garbled half-choked sentences were impossible to decipher from the muffled space between his knees. What the Headmaster could make out was disturbing, to say the least. Albus had allowed him to carry on for a while, then with a flutter in his old and weathered heart, he had reached out and lifted Severus' face gently out of the dark.

The mask had fallen away. Albus had wondered briefly how a face could look so young and so old at once. Pale as the snow falling softly around them, eyes shadowed with the powder-blue depressions of sleeplessness and a weak flush of color in the thin cheeks and the tip of such a large, cold nose... he had looked up at Albus with the fear of a child, vast and inarticulate, but his sadness spanned the depth of a man who'd lived a hundred years. Albus had wiped away his tears with a gnarled finger.

_Why did you do it?_  the young wizard had demanded.  _Why didn't you let me rot... it's what I deserve._  His voice had been so weak it sounded thin and high as a girl's. He had gazed so imploringly into Albus' face that the Headmaster felt like a god.

_No,_  he had insisted softly, drinking in all the emotion in those lost black eyes. _No one deserves that._  Albus had doubted the authenticity of his words even as he spoke them, but he hoped they were convincing nonetheless. He did believe there was redemption for anyone who sought it, didn't he? From whence had arisen this sudden desire to reassure, to mollify the young wizard? Why did he feel such... guardianship?

Severus hadn't believed him, of course. He had twisted away, curling back upon himself. Albus had settled in the snow beside him, allowing himself a modicum of intimacy with the bereft Potions Master _. We all fall from grace, Severus. It's what we do when we scrape the bottom that shows who we truly are._  He had crossed his arms against the rising chill in the air. _Your remorse is real. Your redemption will come. But you must be patient with yourself._

Severus had lifted his head once more and was peering quizzically at Albus through his tears. He blinked dully, his large, red nose sniffling.  _What do we do now?_  he asked, staring bleakly at the stark winter landscape. Albus had risen stiffly.

_We get up and try again,_  he replied. Severus had taken his proffered hand and drawn himself up. He gasped when Albus pulled him into an embrace that surprised them both.

_I won't give up on you,_  the Headmaster had said, squeezing him tightly as if to wring out a whole lifetime of grief and pain. Severus stood deathly still, as if nothing like this had ever happened to him before. Then, just as he began to relax, he was released.

Albus strode on towards the Apparition point as if nothing unusual had transpired. Severus struggled to catch up. The sound of his running footsteps and panting breath gave Albus a strange sense of satisfaction. He knew in that moment that he had taken more responsibility for Severus Snape's well-being than was advisable for a man of his station. Yet he found he did not care. And he knew, after such a display of compassion and faith, that Severus would do anything to stay at his heels.


	4. Elevation

Life at the castle had improved steadily as winter melted away into a chilly, early spring. No further incidents took place in the Potions classroom - at least, none that had to be reported - and, for the most part, Severus was getting along as well as Albus could have hoped. He'd been absent at Christmas, but he had accepted Albus' gift of a few pairs of hand-knitted woolen socks (garish as they were) and had reluctantly opened a belated Christmas cracker with him in the Headmaster's office when he returned. The purple fedora that had emerged from the magical novelty now sat perched jauntily atop Albus' stately head as he went about his business within the castle.

Severus' occasional bouts of temper were limited to verbal harassment of students and did not fall outside the realm of acceptable abuse from a British boarding-school professor. Only Albus knew of the nights he still sometimes spent in the grip of the old spectre of depression. He had proven himself to be a competent teacher, and some tentative friendships were budding between himself and other members of the staff as a result of his skill in other disciplines besides his own. Much had happened since that desolate day in the woods, and Severus was not the only one to have undergone a change.

While the Headmaster gave no outward sign, he could feel that the sands were shifting in his heart. Since the day of the tribunal his mind had become undisciplined, despite his many duties he found his thoughts straying back to the thicket in the woods. It seemed he had left something unsaid, something so profoundly important that his misbehaving mind would not let him rest until it was discovered. Every time Severus crossed his path he felt compelled to reach out, to somehow make his unease known, but each time he stopped short. The young wizard did not seem to appreciate his whimsical sense of humor and would probably perceive Albus' friendly fumblings as sycophantic. But the more Albus watched, the more certain he became that the young man's wounds were healing - their dried coverings flaking away like flower petals to reveal the thin white flesh of a scar

He asked Severus to tea. Their lives had clashed together with such volatility that Albus had been surprised at how much Severus actually kept to himself. After the fateful day of his return to Hogwarts, in which he'd been so stricken he'd had to stay with Albus to protect his own life, the young man had left him largely alone. And Severus would not know of his eyes and ears throughout the castle, not yet. Did he wonder why Albus did not check up on him more often? Either way, Albus mused, he would not be content letting Severus come to him exclusively in times of anguish and despair. Tea was much better-suited to his schedule. And though he could watch the wizard's every move, there was much that could only be learned if Severus wanted to tell.

Severus was healing, slowly but surely. His strict moratorium on discussing personal matters soon blossomed into a tentative voice with Albus' encouragement, and he began to open up about the past he so loathed. Tea became strolls through the castle grounds, which grew into hikes in the misty hills and through the Forest, which, eventually became tea again, but this time the stronger kind that stretched into the wee hours of the morning. With no war looming on the horizon, Albus found he had time to waste, chattering away about the mundane and the classified with a fluid confidence that he shared with no other living soul. Gradually, like the coming of spring, he began to see light flooding into the dark places, illuminating the voids that pockmarked the young man's heart. He began to understand the complexity that lives in every soul, a complexity that no other would ever know.

It was strange and not always pleasant, but he cherished it.

It was the last day of term when Albus finally announced his plans for the summer holidays. Of course, by 'announce' he meant that he'd told Severus, and Minerva, who needed to know where to find him. He preferred that the rest of the world be left to guess at his whereabouts. He was traveling to Macchu Picchu to study a prophecy, made by the ancient Mayans, that he hoped might be linked with the one that had foretold of young Harry's victory. But it was dangerous to go alone. The caves and tombs where the inscriptions were buried, remote and hidden from Muggle eyes, were guarded by powerful, ancient curses.

_Which is exactly why I need you to accompany me,_  he had told the incredulous Potions Master. Severus had shown reluctance at the thought of leaving the castle grounds, where he was safe from old enemies and the capricious Ministry's wrath, but Albus had only clapped him amicably on the back. _A bit of fresh air will do you good, my boy,_ he had assured the baffled young wizard. He didn't much care if Severus believed him.

As they set off, much to the dismay of the many who still mistrusted Severus and worried for the safety of their Headmaster, Albus could not help but feel a swell of pride. At this time last year, Severus had been little more than an experiment, a foolish child on his last shred of hope, looking for a warm bed and a way out of prison. Albus had seen him through the recovery process, had bandaged his wounds and carefully guided him along the rocky path to redemption. Now he almost dared to say that this former Death Eater had become his friend. He was unsure of Severus' opinion on the matter, but he hoped - perhaps more than propriety would permit - that he felt the same.

Albus looked fondly down on the castle as they rose into the air. Severus zoomed up to meet him, ever clumsy on his broomstick, which was laden with their belongings.

_Which way?_  he asked the Headmaster.

Albus smiled as his eyes picked out a route through the buoyant, wispy clouds. _For now,_  he said, _the only way to go is up._


End file.
